


you're the one i choose

by stopthenrewind



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Also: partially inspired by that damn seventeen duet, Also: these are canon compliant missing scenes, And also some bughead in the future scenes, And this is basically just 4k+ words full of his teenage feelings, Basically jughead's been in love with betty for as long as he can remember, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Freeform, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, High School, I will, If the writers won't let them be happy, Pining, Secret Crush, With some teenage pining mixed in, bughead - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-09
Updated: 2019-04-09
Packaged: 2019-12-30 00:23:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18304472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stopthenrewind/pseuds/stopthenrewind
Summary: Even if he isn’t sure about anything else in his life—like his family, or the Serpents, or his future—he is sure about her.





	you're the one i choose

**Author's Note:**

> Canon-compliant, with very minor spoilers up to 3x17, in case you're not caught up!
> 
> Also, I'm finally dipping my toes into fic writing for this fandom, because damn if that Seventeen duet doesn't hit me right in the feels every time I listen to it—even after like 300 replays two weeks later. I just want these kids to be happy, damn it, so here—have a buttload of fluff!

 

They’re eight years old, and Jughead is sitting on the swings, his beat-up old shoes barely scuffing the ground as he watches Archie Andrews kiss Betty Cooper—on the _lips—_ and ask her to marry him in the middle of the Pickens Park playground.

He watches Betty’s face go red as she giggles, her little hand on his best friend’s cheek. “Oh, little Archie,” she says, her voice as fond and soft and sweet as ever, “we’re too young to get married!”

Archie shakes his head stubbornly. “No, we’re not!”

“Ask me again when we’re eighteen,” Betty smiles, gently patting his face twice, “and I’ll say yes.”

“That’s...eight...nine...no, _ten_ whole years from now,” Archie complains, but his frown softens into a smile when Betty leans in to kiss him on the cheek.

“We still got a whole lotta growing up to do, you know.”

“But ten _years_?”

“I’ll wait for you,” Betty says. “And you’ll wait for me. Won’t you, Archie?”

Archie seems put out at the thought of waiting. But he takes one look at his best friend, pink dress and blond pigtails and all, before he sighs, “Okay.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

“You _pinky_ promise?”

Archie cracks a smile, missing a front tooth, and links his little finger with hers. “I pinky promise.”

“Good,” Betty beams, then glances around, as if suddenly remembering Jughead’s right there—he’s _right there_ , he wants to tell them, and he’s not _invisible_. “You’ll be there at our wedding, won’t you, Juggie?”

Jughead shrugs, “Sure,” and if he digs the toe of his shoe into the dirt a little too hard that some of the loose soil goes flying, none of them really takes notice.

 

::

 

They’re eleven when Jughead catches her absentmindedly doodling _Mrs. Betty Andrews_ in the margins of her notebook in the middle of AP English, over and over and _over_ , as Mr. Henderson drones on about _Moby Dick._ It’s a book that both Jughead and Betty have read last year; lying on their stomachs on the floor of the Jones’ old treehouse as they read quietly together, waiting for the other to finish a page before turning to the next, while Archie busily peruses an old comic a few feet away.

Having already read the book doesn’t help him answer Mr. Henderson’s question when he’s suddenly called on, though; he distractedly murmurs a “Huh? What?” in the teacher’s direction, causing a few titters to go through the room.

“Wouldn’t hurt you to pay a bit more attention to the lesson, Mr. Jones,” the English teacher sighs sternly, “and spend less time daydreaming about girls!”

Jughead flushes at the thought of being caught looking a little too often in a certain blonde’s direction—a blonde he can’t really _look_ at right now _,_ because oh my _god_ —but Reggie just laughs loudly from behind him.

“Please,” Reggie drawls. “ _Girls_ are the last thing on Wednesday Addams’ mind.”

Jughead rolls his eyes and ignores him, instead catching Betty’s sympathetic eye across the aisle. She smiles at him comfortingly, then raises her hand to answer the question he’d missed, effectively getting Mr. Henderson’s attention away from him. Just like the good friend—the very, very good _friend_ , he stresses—that she always is.

She turns to smile at him again once the teacher’s attention is elsewhere, but Jughead’s gaze falls to her closed notebook; and he wonders why her neat, cursive writing’s embedded in his brain— _Mrs. Betty Andrews, Mrs. Betty Andrews, Mrs. Betty Andrews—_ over and over and _over_ again until he feels like he’s going to lose his damn mind.

 

::

 

They’re thirteen when they’re arguing about Truman Capote and Harper Lee (“ _To Kill a Mockingbird_ is _obviously_ the superior novel,” Betty quips, earning Jughead’s indignation) over Saturday brunch at the Andrews’, and when Archie comments, completely out of the blue: “Man, you guys sound like an old married couple.”

Instantly, Jughead chokes on the multiple pieces of bacon he’s been shoving into his mouth, just as Betty says, “No, we don’t!”—to which Jughead wrinkles his nose, because she kind of maybe sounds a little _too_ defensive.

“Yes, you do,” Archie says through a mouthful of scrambled eggs. “You’re like that old married couple that fights about pretty much everything.”

“Uh, Juggie and I happen to get along _great,_ ” Betty says, affronted. “Right, Jug?”

He hurriedly gulps down some coffee, braves the slight burn scalding his tongue, and wishes the earth will open up and swallow him whole. “Sure,” he says, and he avoids Archie’s curious eye and Betty’s satisfied smile.

He definitely does _not_ think about the way Betty doesn’t _really_ sound offended at the idea of being an old married couple—and when he catches himself staring at her again, he wishes he could douse bleach all over his dumb brain, because no, no, _no,_ he can’t be thinking about this. About _her,_ that way _._ Ever.

_Ever._

 

::

 

They’re fourteen when he’s sulking at homecoming—alone, because Archie is a lousy friend who _left_ him for some _girl_ the instant they arrived—and Betty appears in front of him, wearing a smile that throws him for a loop.

“Juggie,” she says, looking relieved. “Hi.”

Her voice is a little breathy as Jughead stares up at her in her pretty green dress, trying to swallow the fucking _boulder_ in his throat that’s slowly growing and threatening to overwhelm him; threatening to spill some words from his mouth that he _definitely_ should not be saying out loud, because holy _crap_ , Betty is _beautiful._

He realizes he’s been staring at her for a beat too long when she starts looking at him with a frown. “You okay?”

“Sure.” Why is his voice so high-pitched? “Sure am. Totally fine. More than fine. Amazing, even.”

He has _no idea_ why he’s even talking.

“You sure?”

“Very sure.”

“Because I was gonna say let’s go check out the buffet table,” she tells him, grinning knowingly, “if you’re up for it.”

“Betty Cooper,” he sighs. “You are the best person in the whole world.”

She grows a little pink in the face, but she smiles and holds her hand out, gesturing for him to take it. “C’mon,” she says, “the faster we get there, the faster we can escape to Pop’s.”

His hand is in hers as she starts leading him away, and when she turns her head to smile at him again, he swears his fucking heart skips a beat before it starts a steady rhythm in his ears, pounding and beating and telling him something he’s kind of probably known for a while now: he is so, so, _so_ far gone.

 

::

 

They’re fifteen when he thinks, _fuck it,_ and kisses her for the first time—standing in the middle of her pink-covered room, feeling her mouth move under his, holding her face like it’s the most precious, most delicate thing he’s ever touched, and honestly—it probably kind of _is._

He pulls away and lets out a long, drawn out breath—of relief, of happiness, of contentment, he doesn’t even fucking know how to sort out all of his emotions right now. Through his lashes, he sees her lips slowly form into a smile, and his heart stutters inside his chest.

His fingers tremble slightly as they brush over her jaw, and _oh god,_ his heart is pounding a million miles a minute, but _oh god,_ he just _kissed_ Betty Cooper, and she kissed him back, and he already wants to do it again—over and over again, and possibly even forever if she’ll let him.

Of course, the mystery continues, or the show must go on, or whatever saying is appropriate for the situation, and he desperately tramps down the disappointment when she’s once again wrapped up in the case, and reminds himself that this isn’t the right time, or the right place—but damn everything else because all that kiss tells him is that she’s been the right girl all along.

“Hey, Jug,” he hears her say softly, right before they leave her room; when he turns around, his eyebrows raised questioningly, her lips are on his again all of a sudden, and _wow,_ yep, yes—he thinks he can do this for the rest of his life, probably.

They pull away slowly—slowly, slowly, slowly, his lips chasing hers blindly—and when he opens his eyes, he knows he looks a little dumbfounded while she’s _there_ , smiling up at him with the tiniest hint of shyness creeping up her cheeks.

“To be continued,” she says, sounding a little breathless, and fuck if his heart isn’t feeling the lightest it’s ever been in _weeks_ when her fingers fit neatly into the spaces between his and she starts dragging him down the stairs.

And really—at this point, he already _knows_ he’s going to be following her anywhere she wants him to.

 

::

 

They’re sixteen when she smiles curiously up at him, her hand on his face, as she asks, “Are you asking me to join the Serpents, Jug?”

He drinks her in—her tousled blond hair, her soft green eyes—and a million thoughts race through his mind, but the words that come out of his mouth are, “Sort of”—and suddenly she’s sitting up, speechless and looking at him in something akin to wonder.

“You don’t have to answer right now,” he tells her; his voice is quiet and sure, but as he looks at her, _really_ looks at her, he realizes he’s never really been more scared—or more sure—of anything else in the world. “You can take your time. Let me know.”

When she continues to stare at him with the same look on her face, he tries to diffuse the tension, sort of give her an out if she wants to, and says, “Like tomorrow at lunch, or—” but he doesn’t get to say any more words in, because she’s suddenly _there,_ on his lap, kissing him and kissing him and _kissing him_ like her life depended on it.

“Juggie,” she breathes in between kisses, her lips ghosting over his; there’s laughter in her eyes and her smile is quite possibly the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen in his life. “We’re sixteen.”

“Yes, I know.”

“You’re a little too young to be leading a—an entire _gang._ ”

He sighs, his fingers slowly tracing her spine. “I know.”

“And we’re a little too young for—for all of these _things_ happening in our lives right now. For—for serial killer dads, or _gang life,_ or—”

“Betty,” he says quietly, “I know. I know. I’m sorry, I just—”

“Jug,” she interrupts him; her touch is gentle as she plays with the hairs at the back of his neck. “I told you before. I’m all in. I’m not leaving your side. Not now, not ever.”

Her right hand comes to rest on his chest, and he feels his heart beating steadily under her fingers—feels his entire heart pour out of him and right into her waiting arms.

“Is that a yes?” he asks, even though he already knows the answer, even though he’s already smiling as widely as his face would allow before the muscles start to pull at his stitches.

“Yes, Juggie,” she laughs. “That’s a yes.”

She kisses him again, and even when he pulls her even closer, her hand stays there, right above his pounding heart—as if to remind her that he’s there, and he’s never leaving again, never ever ever.

 

::

 

They’re seventeen when he kneels in front of her, his eyes wide and almost desperate as he clutches on to her waist tightly, as if he never wants to let her go, and he doesn’t. Not now more than ever.

“I just want to be seventeen,” he mumbles against her stomach. “I just want to _feel_ seventeen with you.”

“I know, Jug,” she says sadly, and tilts his chin up to look at her as she gets down on her knees in front of him too, holding his face tenderly in her hands.

“Why can’t we just be fucking _normal_ for once?”

“So let’s be normal.” Betty shrugs. “Go see some more bad movies to insult. Play video games with Archie. Hop on a train to New York City. Sneak out to...I dunno, a bunch of parties in Centreville or something.”

Despite himself, Jughead smiles. “You hate parties.”

“So do you.”

“I’d be willing to stick them out, though,” he says quietly, “as long as I’m with you.”

She softens. “You have me, Juggie.”

She cards her fingers gently through his hair as she maneuvers them both on the floor until she’s sitting cross-legged with his head on her chest; and she just holds him there as he finally crumples, his exhaustion breaking over him like a tide.

He cries for his father, just trying his damned hardest to keep his family afloat; he cries for his childhood home, destroyed by a mother that should’ve stayed gone; he cries for the innocence that he and his friends no longer have, cries for what’s become of their town. What’s become of the world where they stumble blindly and try to fight their way through.

A world that’s grown dark, and dangerous, and tumultuous, and terrifying.

A world where his mom’s a drug lord threatening his life; where his girlfriend’s mom is a member of a cult that’s slowly planting its roots in this already fucked up town; where her dad’s a serial killer, still sometimes causing his daughter’s nightmares even from inside a lonely jail cell.

But there are good things, too.

It’s a world where Betty Cooper exists, where she’s holding him against her, humming softly into the stillness of the trailer; a world where he feels the calming beat of her heart against his ear, keeping him steady; a world where he isn’t sure about anything else in his entire life, but he is sure about how he feels about her.

She whispers, “You’ll always have me,” and his heart fills with a sudden warmth that he’s sure he just _knows_ : he’s not letting this slip away. He never wants to let _this_ —this moment, this feeling, this girl—slip away.

 

::

 

They’re barely eighteen when they quietly let themselves inside the Cooper-turned-Jones home, both covered in soot, their dirty clothes a day old, and bodies visibly shaking with fading adrenaline and exhaustion.

“Is it really over?” she finally says, her voice small, breaking the silence.

“The Serpents are taking care of it,” he says. It’s not exactly the answer she’s looking for, but she accepts it. She’s too tired not to.

“My mom…”

“We said we’ll meet her at the station in an hour, Betts.”

“I know, it’s just…” Betty sighs, her eyes betraying how tired she is, red around the edges from trying not to cry. “I know it’s best for her to leave this godforsaken town for a bit, and get her life back together after she’s been brainwashed by a freaking _cult_ , but…she’s still my mother.”

He swallows, his fingers tightening involuntarily around hers. “You can...still change your mind, you know.”

Her head snaps upward. “What are you saying?”

“You can…” He swallows again. His throat feels tight and heavy and there’s a faint burning sensation at the back of his eyes, but he holds them back. “You can be with your family, Betty. You can go with your mom, and Polly and the twins, and I would…” He lets out a breath and looks away.

“You’d what, Jug?”

“I’d understand,” he whispers, “if you want to be with your family.”

When he raises his head again, her eyes are blazing—with anger, with defiance, with a fire that burns and flickers with life. “Jughead,” she says, and her voice is strong and steady as she takes his free hand—his dirty, soot-covered, bruised and battered hand—and clutches their entwined fingers to her heart. “ _You_ are my family.”

The burning sensation worsens, clouding his vision of _her_ —leather jacket, pink sweater, loose blond hair, green eyes, and all—but he holds on, leans in closer. “Betty...”

“You _are,_ Juggie,” she tells him fiercely. She brings their joint hands to her lips and places a lingering kiss against his skin. “You are. And I’m not going anywhere. Not by a long shot. And definitely not without you.”

When he kisses her then, it’s with everything he has—with all this love, and emotion, and a certainty he feels deep inside his chest at the very thought of this girl who’s been in his life for as long as he can remember, whom he can’t imagine living the rest of his life without. His hands slip out of hers and onto her waist, backing her against a wall and kissing her even more; her hands are in his hair, tugging his beanie off, and he whimpers against her mouth when she catches his bottom lip between her teeth.

“Betty,” he says, panting and breathy, dipping his head to start licking and nipping at her collarbone; her head tilts to the side languidly, giving him better access. “Betty, I love you.”

She clutches the back of his head as he licks and bites and marks her skin; then she’s pulling at his hair and bringing his lips to hers once again, diving her tongue inside his mouth as she leans in even closer than he’d thought possible.

“I love you, too,” she gasps against his mouth when he pushes his pelvis into hers, and she moves with him, seeking friction. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

He wonders when the novelty of saying those three little words—of hearing them get said back—will wear off. Probably not today, he thinks, as he scoops her up and tugs her legs around his waist, slamming her even harder against the wall.

Probably not tomorrow, either, he thinks, as he pushes into her, and he breathes the words into her mouth again, over and over and over.

Probably not ever, he decides, as she whispers the words into his ear as she tightens around him, his name a gasping cry on her lips as they topple over the edge.

 

::

 

They’re eighteen as he watches her walk across the stage in blue Riverdale high robes, a graduation cap perched jauntily on her head as he claps harder than everyone else in the room.

She grins at him from the stage, spotting him immediately; and when it’s his turn, he can hear her cheering loudly in the audience, her voice a few decibels louder than everyone else, and he smiles in her direction as she blows him a kiss, ever his biggest ally.

After—after Archie and Veronica have gone ahead to Pop’s, after FP and Jellybean have promised to see them later for graduation dinner, after Alice, Polly, and the twins have left for the Five Seasons—he wraps his arms around her waist and buries his face in her hair, breathing her in.

“Didn’t think we’d ever get here, huh?” she asks him softly, and when he looks up, she’s smiling at him, her eyes glistening.

After—after everything: after Jason Blossom, and the Serpents, and the Black Hood, and the Gargoyle King, and the Sisters of Quiet Mercy, and the Farm—after _everything,_ she’s still here. _They’re_ still here.

He’s never letting go.

He kisses her long and slow, and pulls away only to plant another kiss to her temple as she breathes against his neck. He feels her heartbeat against his—thump, thump, thump—steady and constant and sure, just like the way he feels about her. Just like the way he’ll always feel about her. “We’re getting there, Betts,” he whispers against her skin, and he brushes away the tear that falls from her eye.

“I love you,” she says, then plucks off his graduation cap before pulling his beanie from her purse, putting it back on his head with the gentlest hands he’s ever known.

When she’s done, she leans back to smile at him, her eyes crinkling—and dear god, that smile still knocks the fucking breath out of him.

“I love you, too,” he says, and he swears he’ll never get tired of saying it.

 

::

 

They’re twenty-two, and they’re eating leftovers and Chinese takeout in the living room of their tiny Brooklyn apartment, when he looks over at her—sitting at the end of the couch, her stocking feet in his lap where he sits on the other end, _To Catch a Thief_ playing on TV in the background.

She’s frowning at the article she’s editing on her laptop as she shoves some dimsum in her mouth; she’s wearing an old Riverdale High sweatshirt and pajama bottoms with orange tabbies all over them, and when he looks down at his lap, he sees her socks are blue and patterned with little typewriters. Gone are the days of the tight ponytails; her hair is in a messy bun now, a pencil shoved through it absentmindedly, and her teal nail polish is chipped, and her face is bare and tired, and her palms are dotted with white, translucent scars that are a couple of years old.

He just _looks_ at her, suddenly feeling breathless and overwhelmed, and she’s just sitting there, with no idea of what’s going on inside his head—just typing away and muttering to herself as she hits the backspace key a little too hard a little too many times.

“God, why did I procrastinate on this stupid article?” she grumbles, blond tendrils of hair falling in her face as she types, and Jughead involuntarily reaches over and tucks them behind her ear, almost like clockwork, practically out of habit.

When she looks up at him and smiles gratefully, saying, “Thanks, Juggie,” he swallows hard. Really, really hard. He can barely hear anything past the sudden ringing in his ears.

Then—

“Marry me?”

Oh god. Oh _god._

Betty’s head suddenly whips up, her eyes wide. “I’m sorry?”

Even then, even in the face of his complete and utter stupidity, her Cooper manners are hard to shake.

“I—” he starts chuckling nervously. “What?”

“What?”

“What?”

“Juggie.”

“This dimsum’s really good tonight, huh?” His hands are fucking _trembling_ as he lifts his takeout container and tries to shove some more food inside his mouth, and oh god, oh god, oh _god,_ what did he just fucking _do_?

“Jug,” she says, and then her hands on his wrist, gently pulling his food away from him to take her hands in his. “Are you—did you just—”

 _Oh god._ He swallows. “I—well, I’m _tired,_ and _hungry,_ and it’s your fault that you’re really distractingly pretty, Betty; I’m not in my right mind right now and can’t be held accountable for anything I’m saying, and I just want to say—”

“Yes, Juggie.”

“—that let’s just forget everything that ever—um...what?” He freezes, his eyes wide as he stares into hers, ito her distractingly pretty green eyes that are filling up with tears as she puts her laptop down on the coffee table and scoots even closer to him ‘til she’s straddling his lap, her warm, soft hands on his face, caressing his skin so gently that his eyes fall closed.

He nuzzles his face against her hands, then takes them in his and kisses them for a long time. She touches her forehead to his, and he feels his heartbeat slow down to a steadier rhythm as he breathes her in: _Betty Betty Betty._

“Jug.”

When he peeks up at her, their foreheads still touching, he finds her smiling at him. Always so kind, always so gentle.

Always the most fucking beautiful girl he’s ever seen in his entire life.

Always the only girl that he’ll ever have for the rest of his entire life.

“We’re a little young to get married,” she says, breaking the silence.

“I know.”

“We’re _twenty-two_.”

“Yes, we are.”

“I just started my job at the paper,” she says, “and you’re just starting to meet with some book agents.”

“That’s true.”

“And I love you.”

He smiles against her cheek. “I love you, too.”

“And I’ll marry you,” she tells him softly, her breath fanning against his cheek, “if you’ll marry me.”

His chest rumbles with a chuckle, his heartbeat starting to pick up again as he tugs her closer to him until he feels her own heart, beating steadily against his own.

“Well, duh, Betty,” he grins. “You know you’ll always have me.”

She smiles. “That’s a yes, right?”

“How did this turn from me proposing, to _you_ proposing?”

She shrugs and smiles as her fingers snake around his neck and into his hair. “We can’t do anything normally, I guess.”

He laughs into her neck, and she tugs at his hair a little tighter to bring his lips to hers, and they don’t really do much talking after that.

 

::

 

They’re twenty-six when they're standing in the middle of this little New York courthouse, as he slips the gold band shakily onto her ring finger, then wraps his arms around her waist, pulling her into a deep kiss.

“Well, um,” the marriage officiant says, “you may kiss the bride, then.”

He hears Veronica and Archie laughing and cheering loudly behind them, and he hears Jellybean, wolf-whistling just as loudly, but he blocks them out, concentrating on the feel of Betty’s lips—his _wife,_ his _wife’s_ lips—against his own.

She pulls away first, her eyes bright and wide and happy. “No turning back now, Jug.”

He scoffs, pulling her even closer to him, and places a light kiss on her jaw. “As if I would ever want to,” he says. “I’ve wanted this since I was eight.”

She laughs, runs a hand through his hair; his beanie is in her purse, because he doesn’t need it today. He doesn’t really want it today.

“Is that the beginning?” she asks, a laugh in her voice. “Of you falling madly in love with me? Eight years old?”

He shrugs. He’s grinning, and he’s feeling light, and sure, and _happy._ He’s just happy, and for the first time in maybe forever, he’s looking forward to the future. To their future. To her, for possibly forever from now on. He doesn’t want anything else.

“Maybe,” he says. “Everything in my life always begins and ends with you.”


End file.
